


chiaroscuro

by shellybelle



Series: catch me, i'm falling [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Derek "Nursey" Nurse is Unchill, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, discussion of suicide, everyone is sad but there are cuddles, insecurity for days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellybelle/pseuds/shellybelle
Summary: “Nu, habibi,” Derek’s mother says to him gently, as they leave the registration table. “Are you sure about this? Hockey is a rough sport. It’s going to hurt, sometimes.”Derek, all of eight years old, squares his shoulders. “That’s okay, Ammi,” he says. “I’m not scared.”(They warn him that hockey hurts. They don’t warn him that depression hurts worse.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this fic was "okay, we know it's fake chill, but _how fake is it?_?" and that should tell you everything you need to know.
> 
> Please mind the tags, and read safely. <3

**chiaroscuro**

 

(a technique employed in the visual arts to represent light and shadow. at its most dramatic: the use of a harsh, dramatic light to isolate figures and heighten their emotional tension.)

 

(can be used, through softened edges, to portray calm.)

 

-

 

“Nu, habibi,” Derek’s mother says to him gently, as they leave the registration table. “Are you sure about this? Hockey is a rough sport. It’s going to hurt, sometimes.”

 

Derek, all of eight years old, squares his shoulders. “That’s okay, Ammi,” he says. “I’m not scared.”

 

(They warn him that hockey hurts. They don’t warn him that depression hurts worse.)

 

-

 

Most days, Derek deals with it. 

 

He passes the spaciness off as his _chill_ , passes the self-deprecation off with a lazy smile or a “but, you know, it’s whatever.” He plays off the insomnia as “just had to get that poem out, y’know?”, drinks coffee like it’s his job, and when the hypersomnia hits, passes out _hard_. He only forgets to add “lol” after his post-crash “what day is it?” text to Lardo once. When she asks, he tells her he was high.

 

He sets alarms in his phone for breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks; eats even when food is tasteless, always makes sure to tell Bitty his pies are “totally dope, bro, best I’ve ever had.” Makes sure, on the days when he’s eating too slowly and Bitty’s eyes start to narrow with worry, to flash the smile that made the girls at Andover melt, to drawl, “marry me, Bits,” and get a huff and a fond smile and a gentle whack with a wooden spoon.

 

It’s harder to play off the hopelessness and the sudden swells of sadness that last for days and especially the exhausted irritability that Dex in particular never fails to bring out in him, but he--he manages. Mostly. 

 

And the meds help, and writing helps, and hockey helps, and he deals. 

 

Except for the days when he just...can’t.

 

It’s not a bad day, this time, really. There’s nothing bad _about_ it, at least. He and Dex connect better at practice than they have all semester, and he even manages to not get distracted by the glint of the morning sun turning Dex’s eyes honey-gold. Breakfast doesn’t taste like sawdust; when he laughs at a couple of Chowder’s jokes, it almost doesn’t hurt his chest to do it. His mom calls out of the blue just to say hi, her voice warm and soft in his ear; his poetry workshop in the afternoon actually goes pretty well. 

 

But when he gets back to his room at the end of the day, the sky outside his window darkening, he’s just--he’s fucking _tired_. His face hurts from keeping up an expression of unaffected amusement, his joints hurt because apparently that’s just part of the fucking depression picnic, he hasn’t gotten more than two hours of sleep in...shit, like, five days? Jesus.

 

Derek pushes his door closed and drops his backpack, grateful for his single as he shrugs out of his jacket and flops face-first onto his bed. He kicks his shoes off without taking his face out of his comforter, reaching up for his pillow and shoving it on top of his head. He doesn’t think he can sleep, even though he’s so tired his eyes hurt when he closes them. Too much anxious energy under his skin.

 

How long is going to take before the lack of sleep starts messing with his game on the ice? Not that he’s half as good as he probably should be, playing second line on an NCAA team; he knows Dex is carrying his weight more days than not, but fuck, it’s gonna start to show sooner or later. But he needs it--not because he needs the wins, and he’s not on scholarship, but he needs the rush, and the impact, the adrenaline and the energy. 

 

If he loses that, if he loses the team, then it’ll just be _lows_ , all the time, and he can’t--he can’t--

 

The familiar ropes of anxiety start tightening around his chest and throat and he rolls onto his back, makes himself take a breath in. Fuck, _fuck_. He’s definitely not going to sleep now, _fuck_. He takes another breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to ward off a panic attack, wondering if it’s worth dragging himself up to grab a Xanax. 

 

Another minute of deep breathing doing absolutely nothing for him makes the choice for him. He sits up and fumbles in his desk drawer, all the way in the back where he keeps the bottle. His hands are shaking, and he fumbles the bottle a little when he pops the cap to shake out a pill, accidentally tipping half a handful into his palm instead of just one, and he has the entire pile halfway to his mouth before he freezes. 

 

That’s. Not right. 

 

Slowly, Derek lowers his hand.

 

For a long moment he just sits there, staring at the tablets until his vision starts to blur. It wouldn’t…It wouldn’t be hard. The bottle’s almost full, and if he really wants to do it right, he’s pretty sure there’s half a handle of vodka in the freezer in his suite’s common room. He could just...just...

 

He sucks in a breath, and carefully tips his hand, pouring the pills back into the bottle. He puts the cap back on and drops the bottle onto his desk, and then scoots as far away from his desk as he can while staying on his bed, fumbling his phone out of his pocket and opening one of the breathing apps his therapist had him download. He breathes along with the animated image of ripples in water until he feels less like his heart is going to drop out of his chest, and then, when he trusts his voice to come out of his mouth without crackling, he calls Chowder.

 

C picks up on the first ring, because he is a fucking ray of sunshine of a human being and holy shit, Derek doesn’t deserve him. 

 

“Nursey?” He sounds confused, which makes sense, because Derek never calls anyone. Thanks, phone anxiety, you motherfucker. “What’s up?”

 

“Hey,” Derek says. “I--are you busy?”

 

“Not really! I’m watching _Parks and Rec_ , and then Dex is coming over in a little while to do some programming homework, but I’m kind of just hanging out. Are you okay?”

  
“Yeah, I’m fine, I just…” He takes a careful breath, trying to make sure his voice isn’t shaking. “I just, uh, need to get out of my room for a bit, wanted to see if I could come hang with you for a little while?”

 

“Of course you can!” Chowder’s response is instantaneous and enthusiastic and Derek’s chest _aches_ \--he can’t remember the last time he felt as happy about anything as Chowder sounds about a night in with a friend. “Dude, always, you don’t even have to ask, y’know? You can just drop by.”

 

Derek swallows. “Didn’t wanna crash if you had plans, man,” he says, because it sounds better than _you can do so much better for friends, C, come on_. “I can be over in like ten?”

 

“Sounds good!”

 

Chowder hangs up, and Derek stares at the ceiling and wills his eyes to stop stinging.

 

“Okay,” he tells himself. “Okay.”

 

It takes him longer than ten minutes to get himself off his bed, into the bathroom to wash the tear tracks off his face--he hadn’t even realized he’d cried--and then to pull his coat back on and trek out across the quad to Chowder’s dorm. The temperature outside has dropped with the sun, unseasonably cold for early November in Massachusetts, and he tugs his hood up, shivering in the early evening air. 

 

The door to Chowder’s room is open, as it almost always is, and Derek hesitates in the hallway, out of sight of where he knows C would be able to see him from his bed or his desk. This is stupid--He’s fine. He’s fine. He can be home on his own without wanting to--he’s _fine_. He takes a hesitant step back the way he came. 

 

And then he remembers how _good_ that pile of pills had felt in his hand, how easy it had been to just bring it up to his mouth, and his stomach flips. He swallows, schools his face to _chill_ and forces his shoulders back and down, easy, relaxed, and raps his knuckles on Chowder’s door. 

 

“Yo,” he calls.

 

Chowder’s on his bed with his computer, but his face lights up as he glances up at Derek. “Hey,” he says. “C’mon in.” He sits up, putting his computer on his desk. 

 

Derek steps in and leaves the door open, taking his coat off and blinking a few times to adjust to the storm of turquoise, just like he always does. It’s a good thing Chowder’s roommate is literally never home, he thinks absently, or they’d probably have some issues about the decor. “Thanks again, man,” he says. “I needed to get out for a bit.”

 

“No problem!” Chowder moves over on his bed and pats the space next to him. Derek puts his coat over the back of Chowder’s desk chair and climbs up onto the bed, leaning back against the wall. It’s kind of a tight fit for both of them, but Chowder doesn’t seem to mind, so he lets himself slump a little against the headboard. Chowder frowns at him. “Are you okay? You look really tired, Nursey.”

 

“I’m fine.” He tries to smile, but it feels flat on his face, and Chowder’s brow furrows. Derek swallows and gestures at the laptop still open on Chowder’s lap. “What episode are you on?”

 

Chowder narrows his eyes slightly, almost suspiciously, but he seems to decide to let Derek off the hook. “The one where they all go to the Snakehole and get super drunk on Snake Juice,” he says.

 

Despite himself, Derek snorts. “Like the best ever kegster,” he says. “Can you imagine Bitty on that stuff?”

 

“Ew,” Chowder says, making a face. “Nursey, he’s like my _dad_.” 

 

“I’m telling him you said that,” Derek teases, and it’s almost okay, sitting here, chirping Chowder. He can do this. He can be fine. He picks up the huge shark plushie from the bottom of the bed--seriously huge, the thing’s gotta be half as big as Chowder is--and hauls it up into his lap, just to have something to hold onto. “Alright, let’s do this,” he says.

 

Chowder hums, hitting the spacebar to resume the episode. 

 

It takes a few minutes of letting the sounds of Netflix and humor and absurd plotline wash over him, but Derek feels a little of the tension leave his muscles, one micron of pressure at a time. He runs his fingers idly over the fabric of the shark plushie, just to ground himself. It’s some kind of weird faux-suede material, not, he thinks, anything like what a real shark would feel like. It’s one of the few things on Chowder’s half of the room that isn’t turquoise. 

 

He pokes, absently, at one of the shark’s teeth. It isn’t sharp, and he hates the part of himself that wishes it was.

 

“Hey.” Chowder nudges him. “Are you watching?”

 

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, I am. Sorry. Just--spacey.” Derek hesitates, then shuffles down a little bit on the bed, dropping his head onto Chowder’s shoulder. Ransom and Holster and Shitty aside, SMH isn’t _hugely_ touchy-feely, but C tends to be okay with it.

 

Sure enough, Chowder says, “aw,” and shifts around so that he can put his head on top of Derek’s. He pauses before he puts his head down. “Is it okay that I’m on your hair?” he asks.

 

Derek feels a sudden surge of affection toward him. “Yeah, dude, it’s fine.”

 

“Okay, cool.” Chowder turns the volume up a few hits, and Derek lets his eyes fall to half-mast. He still doesn’t think he could sleep, but he feels a little more relaxed, at least. 

 

He’s settled into a half-doze when the door opens the rest of the way and a very familiar voice says, “Hey, C, sorry I’m late, I--Nursey? What the fuck?”

 

Right. 

 

Derek picks his head up off Chowder’s shoulder and sits up, rubbing a hand over his face and pasting his smile back on. “Sup, Poindexter?”

 

Dex blinks at him from the doorway, his backpack slung over his shoulder, expression caught somewhere between confusion and annoyance--his standard, when it comes to Derek. “What are you doing here?”

 

“He needed a break from his room and we were hanging out, be _nice_ ,” Chowder says, before Derek can even open his mouth to answer. “You two yell at each other enough at practice and stuff, my room is a _no yelling zone_. I’ll put up a sign if I have to.”

 

“Yo, C, chill,” Derek says, half because he means it, and half because Dex literally twitches and Derek’s never claimed to not be a dick. “Anyway, it’s fine, I can get out of your hair, I know you guys have your homework thing.” He gets to his feet.

 

Chowder frowns. “You should stay,” he says. “You seemed like you really needed to get out of your room. We’re just gonna be at my desk, you should just hang here. Read or take a nap or whatever, it’s fine.”

 

“I--” Derek hesitates, but Chowder looks earnest, and he really, _really_ doesn’t want to go back to his room, so he just sits back down. “If you’re sure I won’t bother you guys.”

 

Dex looks like he might be about to say that actually, _he_ has a few feelings about what might bother _him_ , but when Derek looks at him, he just purses his lips and takes his laptop out of his backpack. He pulls Chowder’s roommate’s chair over to Chowder’s desk and plops down, cocking a brow at Nursey, and shrugs. “I don’t care.”

 

“See? Dex doesn’t care.” Chowder shoves at his shoulder, then picks up the giant shark plushie and pushes it at Derek’s chest. “Here. Just--hang out.”

 

Derek gathers the shark into his arms, still looking a little uncertainly at Dex, who’s looking pointedly at his computer screen. After a moment, he gives up waiting for Dex’s approval and flops back on Chowder’s bed. “Thanks, C,” he says, and means it.

 

“You’re welcome.” Chowder puts his laptop next to Dex’s and sits down, turning to him. “Do you remember where the assignment starts?”

 

The two of them start working, heads together, and Derek lets their voices fade to a quiet hum of background noise. He turns onto his side, his back to them, spooning himself around the shark and pushing his face into it. That makes him feel like he’s suffocating, so he pulls out his phone and opens the breathing app again. There’s usually a little voice that walks him through the exercises, but he puts it on silent, breathing with the images instead.

 

He feels...he doesn’t know exactly how he feels. A little nauseous, like his adrenaline has left him--he feels a little bit ike he’s had a near-death experience, even though he knows that’s not really true. Not--not strictly, anyway. His hands are shaking, and he curls the one not holding his phone into a fist, trying to keep his breathing even.

 

Get your shit together, Nurse; he tells himself, closing his eyes. You’re fine. You’re gonna sit here, and breathe, and keep your shit under control so that your friends don’t figure out you’re a total fucking mess--bad enough you straight-up told C that you couldn’t be in your own room, you don’t need to give Dex another reason to think you’re a fucking disaster who can’t handle yourself. He swallows, and it feels thick and loud in his ears. If they figure him out, they’re not going to want anything to do with him. 

 

Or worse, they’ll go right to the coaches, and it’ll be weeks of check-ins, and probably mandated sessions with the counselor on campus, and who knows what else the NCAA will make him do, and--

 

His breath is coming faster again, despite the calming ripples on his phone screen, and he realizes, with a sudden, spiraling chill of fear, that it’s gone very, very quiet in Chowder’s room. 

 

“Nursey?” Chowder says his name softly, hesitantly, and Derek’s heart sinks like a rock. _Fuck_. “Are you okay?”

 

Derek squeezes his eyes shut, takes a steadying breath, and sits up, schooling his face into an expression of manufactured calm as he does. “I’m fine,” he says, twisting to look at them. “I’m chill.”

 

The moment the words leave his mouth he knows they’re a mistake--Dex and Chowder are already looking at him with barely-veiled concern; as soon as he says _chill_ , Chowder narrows his eyes, and Dex’s lips thin, but not in annoyance. He looks...worried? No. That doesn’t make sense. “You don’t _sound_ chill,” Dex says. 

 

“I--” Derek’s throat is dry. He swallows, and it hurts, and he prays it doesn’t show on his face. “No. I mean, I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.” 

 

“Nursey…” Chowder frowns, pushing his computer away from him. “Is something going on with you? Because you know you can tell us if there is. We’re your team. We’ve got your back.”

 

Derek snorts before he can stop himself, glancing at Dex, and Dex’s freckled cheeks flush scarlet. “I _would_ listen, if you wanted to fuckin’ talk to me,” Dex snaps, closing his laptop and shoving it none-too-gently into his backpack. “But I wouldn’t want to fuck with your _chill_ , Nurse, so--”

 

“Dex,” Chowder says, sharper than Derek’s ever heard him off the ice, and Derek should probably feel glad that he’s being defended or something, but he just wants to crawl into a hole and disappear. “ _Stop_.” 

 

For half a second, Derek thinks he's off the hook, but then Chowder turns the full force of the Chris Chow Goalie Glare on Derek, and Derek’s stomach clenches. When he talks, though, his voice is surprisingly gentle. “Nursey,” he says. “What’s going on? You’re…” He sits down on the bed next to Derek, his dark eyes worried, and Derek is honestly going to throw the fuck up. “Something’s obviously wrong, so just--talk to us, okay?”

 

“I’m…” The word _fine_ gets stuck in his throat, hard and jagged, and Derek feels like he can’t breathe. Chowder’s bedspread feels strangely rough under his fingertips, and his vision blurs. 

 

He needs to get out of here.

 

He’s up and moving before he even really realizes it, half-stumbling over his own feet. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I just--I had to get out, I was gonna--I was just gonna do something stupid, but I didn’t, and I’m fine, and I’m gonna--I’m gonna go, I just--”

 

“Nursey?”

 

The hand that grabs his arm is too rough to be Chowder’s and Derek turns, a frantic excuse already halfway to his lips, to meet Dex’s wide, worried eyes. “Please let me go,” he says, hating how hoarse his voice sounds. 

 

Dex shakes his head. “No,” he says, but he gentles his grip on Derek’s wrist--it's still firm, but not so tight. “No, Nurse, you're freaking me out. What did you mean, you were gonna do something?”

 

Derek shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, and it comes out in a whisper. He keeps talking, though, his stupid mouth getting away from him, words coming out in a twisted mess. “I didn't mean anything, I just--It was a shit day, and I was just fucking _tired_ , and then I got anxious, and I didn't--the cap just came off the bottle and I didn't mean it but I just--”

 

He sees it on their faces, the moment he says too much. Dex goes pale under his freckles, and Chowder’s off the bed and scrambling for his phone. “Oh my God,” Dex says, his other hand flying up to Derek’s shoulder, gripping hard, and the touch shouldn't be grounding, it _shouldn't_ , but it is. “Holy shit, Nursey, did you--did you take something? What did you do?”

 

“I'm calling my RA,” Chowder says, his face frantic as he unlocks his phone, and something about that jolts Derek back into the world.

 

“No,” he says, wrenching his arm out of Dex’s grasp and grabbing Chowder’s. Chowder snaps his gaze up to look at him, eyes wide and scared. “Don't. Please, I didn't--I didn't take anything. I was gonna, but I didn't, and I don't want--” He swallows, and it's thick and it _hurts_. “Please.”

 

Chowder looks uncertain, but he lowers his phone. “You didn't do anything?” Derek shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. “You swear?”

 

He nods, jerky. “Swear to God, C, I didn't.”

 

“You're shaking,” Dex says, and, belatedly, Derek realizes he is, trembling on his feet. He half expects Dex to be scowling when he looks at him, but when he forces himself to check, Dex’s face is as worried as Chowder’s. “Come sit, okay?”

 

Dazed and too confused to protest, Derek lets Dex steer him back to Chowder’s bed, his knees buckling as Dex sits him down and then climbs up next to him, never letting go of his arm. Chowder scrambles up on his other side, his phone still in his hand. 

 

For a strange, uncomfortable moment, they just sit there, silent, Dex and Chowder bracketing him, each with a hand firm on his arms. Derek can't stop shaking, the pit in his stomach deep and full of shame and fear and fading adrenaline, and he closes his eyes, trying to focus on breathing, on not crying, because that's the last thing he needs. 

 

Chowder breaks the silence. “Nursey,” he says. He sounds almost ready to cry, and Derek can’t fucking deal with that right now, he _can’t_. “Nursey, what’s going _on_?”

 

Derek bites the inside of his cheek, digging his fingernails into his palms. He wants to be anywhere other than here, having this fucking conversation, but he’s self-aware enough to know he shouldn’t be wandering around on campus by himself right now, either. “I’m just…” Shaking, he draws in a breath. He forces his fists to loosen, and pastes a smile on his mouth. “Depression’s a bitch, you know?”

 

It’s a weak, half-assed attempt at humor, and it falls instantly flat, if the looks on Dex and Chowder’s face are anything to go by. “Nursey,” Dex says, and then he hesitates. “I didn’t...You never said you had that.”

 

“Yeah. Well.” Derek shifts back on the bed so he can pull his legs up, looping his arms around them. The motion dislodges both their hands from his arms, and he feels strangely ungrounded for a moment, tightening his hold around his knees to compensate. “What was I gonna say? ‘Sup, I’m Derek Nurse and I’m a walking PSA for all the wrong ways to deal with your mental health?’ C’mon, bro.”

 

Dex looks ready to protest, but Chowder cuts him off. “You’re not a PSA for anything,” he says, firmly, putting his hand back on Derek’s arm. “I wouldn’t have known anything.”

 

Derek shrugs. “I didn’t want you to.” 

 

“Why?” Chowder looks almost _hurt_ , which doesn’t really make sense, but it _does_ make Derek feel even shittier. “You didn’t trust us?”

 

“I trust you,” Derek says, because he _does_ , but he also really needs C to stop looking like that. “I just--I didn’t want you to have to deal with it. With me. Like this.” 

 

He gestures at himself, trying to encompass the whole... _mess_. Chowder opens his mouth, but Dex cuts him off.

 

“We’re your _team_ ,” he says. “It’s our job to be there for you. Whatever’s going on.” 

 

Derek snorts. “You don't even _like_ me,” he says, and it's a low blow, maybe. Dex looks stricken and then guilty, and then his face does something complicated that Derek can't quite figure out before his cheeks turn a soft pink. 

 

“I don't _not_ like you,” he mutters. “I just don't get--” He huffs something that might be a sigh, rubbing his hands over his jeans. “What happened today?” He asks suddenly. It’s an abrupt subject change, and Derek can't help his flinch. “What made you...what was so bad?”

 

“It's not like that.” Derek rubs one thumb over the back of his other wrist, focusing on the sensation and the sight of his fingers slowly losing their tremors so that he doesn't have to look either of them in the face. “It wasn't like...a bad day. Or anything. It just happened.”

 

The look Chowder gives him is almost pained. “Suicide attempts don’t just _happen_ , Nursey.”

 

_Mine usually do_ , Derek almost says, but Dex sucks in a sharp breath when Chowder drops the _s_ word, and Derek doesn’t want to make shit worse. He shrugs instead, pulling his knees in closer. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

 

Chowder doesn’t say anything in response, just presses his lips together tightly. “I just,” he says after a moment, and then, miserably, says, “Nursey, you just look so _sad_.”

 

The lump in Derek’s throat comes back in full force, and he curls his hands into fists, trying to ground himself with the bite of his nails into his palms. “I’m not...sad. Not exactly. It’s more complicated than that.” He forces himself to uncurl his hands before he can draw blood. “I don’t know if I can explain it.”

 

“Try,” Dex says, quietly. 

 

Derek drags his face up to look at him. Dex’s expression is tight with worry, but there’s something in his eyes that seems to go beyond concern, and when Derek glances down to where Dex’s hands rest in his lap, he realizes that they’re clenched, his knuckles white. Derek swallows and takes a breath. “It’s more tired than sad, I guess,” he says slowly. 

 

He doesn’t articulate this stuff much. At least, not like this. He’ll talk about it in therapy, when he has to, and he can put it down on paper, but that’s easier, when he can hide the rawness of it in rhythm and meter. 

 

But Dex and Chowder are still looking at him, like they’re waiting for him to say more, and he flexes his fingers again. “I’m tired, like, all the time,” he mumbles. “But not tired enough to sleep, like, ever. And I just--I always just feel like shit. Like I’m not doing things right, and I don’t deserve to be where I am, and that I have to...I don’t know, hide shit, so that people don’t realize how much of a fucking mess I am.”

 

“You’re not a mess,” Chowder protests, even as Dex says, “People can fuck right off if they give you shit for that.”

 

Derek blinks, a little startled--not so much by the fervency in Chowder’s tone, but by the fury in Dex’s. Dex seems just as surprised, and his face goes immediately pink. “I mean,” he says, flushing darker as he talks. “I just meant--You shouldn’t have to hide that you’re going through something.”

 

“Shouldn’t doesn’t matter,” Derek says. The words come out dull and tired, which seems fitting. He wraps his arms tighter around his knees. “They change how they think of you, when they know.” He smiles, brittle and tight. “C’mon, Dex, you already think I’m a wreck. You tell me, like, every day.”

 

“I didn’t…” Dex looks stricken. “Nursey, I didn’t _know_ \--”

 

“That’s what I’m saying, man,” Derek says, shrugging. “You didn’t _know_ , but you, y’know. Had my number on it.” Dex’s face does something complicated and crumpling, and Derek feels a twinge of guilt. “Hey, dude, it’s whatever. I mean, it’s not like you’re _wrong_.”

 

“Just--stop, okay?” Dex scrubs a hand over his face. “Of course I’m fucking wrong, man, if you’re feeling like shit of course it’s gonna affect how you are, I shouldn’t have assumed you were just slacking off or some shit, I…”

 

He pulls in a breath, weirdly shaky, and Derek thinks, _oh, shit, he’s gonna cry_. He doesn’t have anything close to the mental energy to handle that right now. “Dex, it’s fine. Seriously. I’m not pissed, or whatever. Just...chill, okay?”

 

Dex’s jaw drops, the brightness gathering at the corners of his eyes fading a little, and his expression goes from upset to incredulous. “ _Chill_?” he sputters. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? After what you just told us? Nursey--”

 

“Okay,” Chowder interrupts from Derek’s other side, firm and pointed. “That’s enough.” Dex shuts his mouth so hard Derek hears his teeth click together, and Chowder narrows his eyes briefly at him, as if to make sure he’s actually going to stop talking, before turning the full intensity of his expression on Derek. “Are you getting help? If it’s so bad that you almost--” He presses his lips together, and when he speaks again, it’s a lot softer. “ _Are_ you getting help?”

 

Derek nods, not looking at him. He thinks if he has to see that earnest, worried look on C’s face much longer, he might have an actual fucking breakdown. Again. “I have a therapist,” he says, talking mostly to his knees. “And I’m on meds. It’s just not, y’know. Perfect.” 

 

He chances a look up and immediately regrets it; both Dex and Chowder still look like they want to cry. “I’m a lot better than I was,” he adds quickly. It’s true--mostly, at least. His bad spells still suck as much as ever, but there are fewer of them than there used to be. And the shit that went down tonight hasn’t happened in awhile. 

 

(He’s definitely gonna have to call Salma and schedule an extra appointment, though. Fuck.)

 

Dex exhales slowly. “This is better?” he asks, and there’s a strange, thin note in his voice that makes Derek’s chest ache. “How bad was before?”

 

Derek shrugs. “Bad,” he says, because it’s easier than going into all the shit he’s put his family through over the years. Just thinking about how much faster Farah had to grow up because of him makes his stomach churn, no matter how many years she’s spent telling him that she’s his big sister and it’s her job to make sure he’s okay. 

 

He shivers a little, not really cold, and Chowder slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a loose half-hug. On his other side, Dex shifts closer, his upper arm pressing tight against Derek’s, and he feels, strangely, almost safe. 

 

Then Chowder starts to pull his arm away. “Sorry, I didn’t--is this okay? I know some people don’t like being touched when they’re upset.”

 

Derek shakes his head. Now that he’s had the contact, he suddenly doesn’t want to lose it. “It’s fine. It’s good.” He hesitates, and then, because he’s already this deep, mumbles, “It uh. It’s helpful. If you guys are holding on to me, I can’t, uh.” He swallows. “I can’t do anything I shouldn’t.”

 

Dex’s shoulder tightens against his, but he doesn’t pull away. This close, Derek could turn his head and breathe in the scent of his skin, count the freckles curving over his cheeks. He feels his cheeks warm. Because that’s all he needs, he thinks, his stupid, misplaced crush on his d-man to rear its head while he’s already raw and exposed and can’t keep anything off his stupid face. He pushes a hand through his hair, just to do something with his hands. 

 

“Is there, uh,” Dex says slowly. “Are there things we can do? To help?”

 

“I don’t know,” Derek admits. “This, I guess?” He glances at Chowder, who’s watching him quietly. “Getting me out of my space helps. I tend to isolate. And it’s not…” He chews his bottom lip. “I shouldn’t. Do that.”

 

Something he can’t really read flickers over Chowder’s face. “Is that why you called me?” 

 

Derek nods. “I, uh.” He bites his lip again, digging his teeth in until he thinks he tastes copper, and makes himself let go. “I put the bottle down,” he says, and he’s not sure why it makes him weirdly proud to say it--especially since he knows what he’s gonna say next is just going to be tinged with shame. “But I knew I...I wouldn’t put it down again. If I stayed there, by myself, I’d…” 

 

Dex’s hand finds his shoulder and squeezes _hard_ , and Derek knows, without asking, that it’s permission to stop talking. He exhales shakily, leaning into the grip, and Dex swipes his thumb over his collarbone, almost absently, like he doesn’t care that he’s dipping under the collar of Derek’s shirt to do it. 

 

On his other side, Chowder tightens his arm around Derek’s back. “I’m really glad you called,” he says. 

 

“I’m…” Derek knows he’s supposed to say _me too_ , but he’s not, really. He knows he did the right thing, but he’s not really _glad_ about it. “I’m glad you answered,” he says, which _is_ true. Mostly. “It was okay?”

 

“Of course it was okay,” Chowder says, his expression fierce. He straightens up slightly, leaning forward. “I’m your _friend_ , Nursey, you can _always_ call me. And I’ll always answer.” 

 

Derek’s eyes sting. “Thanks,” he rasps. That, he _does_ mean. For real.

 

“You can call me too,” Dex says quietly. Derek looks at him, startled, and realizes that Dex hasn’t taken his hand off his shoulder. “I know you, uh. You don’t like me much, and that we fight a lot, but--I’m here for you, too. I’ve had someone--” He breaks off, his face twisting slightly, and then takes a breath. “You can call me.”

 

Had someone _what_ , Derek wants to ask, because he’s greedy and he feels like he doesn’t _know_ anything about Dex sometimes, beyond that he doesn’t come from money and he worked his hands off to afford hockey and that he’s more stubborn than anyone Derek’s ever met, except maybe himself. “Okay,” he says. “I, um. Thank you.”

 

Dex shrugs. “Got your back,” he says. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s not casually shutting down the insecurity and fears of abandonment that like to curl around Derek’s throat and strangle him. 

 

They sit for a few minutes in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. He still feels exhausted and shaky, but less like he’s about to tip off a cliff or fall into a sinkhole. The grounding pressure of Chowder and Dex on either side of him is a constant reminder that he’s not by himself, he’s not going to do anything, he’s safe. Slowly, steadily, the pressure that’s been tight in his chest all night starts to loosen.

 

“I’m hungry,” Chowder says finally, breaking the quiet. “Do you guys wanna order a pizza? We could do a movie night.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, feeling a twist of gratitude. The quiet comfort is good, it is, but it’s…a little much. He shifts to get his wallet out of his back pocket. “Here, I can get it.”

 

Chowder shakes his head. “Not this time,” he says.

 

Derek frowns. “Chowder,” he protests. “You don’t have to--”

 

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” Chowder says firmly. “But I’m gonna.” His face softens. “You thought we were gonna stop being your friends, Nursey. We can’t just…”

 

He trails off, like he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence, and Dex clears his throat. “We’re gonna make sure you never believe that shit again,” he says. His face has the same intensity he brings to the ice. “So just--shut up and let us buy you pizza.”

 

Derek’s never had someone look so grumpy while assuring him that they’re his friend. It’s kind of the best thing ever, and he wishes it didn’t make him want to kiss all of Dex’s dumb freckles. “Okay,” he says, and feels his mouth twitch up despite himself. “With pineapple?”

 

“Yeah,” Chowder says, his face lighting up.

 

“Jesus,” Dex says, looking pained. “ _That_ might make me stop being your friend.”

 

That shouldn’t make him grin, but for some reason, it does. “Shut up, Poindexter,” Derek says, elbowing him. “You love me. And my pineapple pizza.”

 

“I something you, that’s for sure,” Dex mutters. On his other side, Chowder bursts out laughing, already tapping their pizza order into Seamless. 

 

They get two pizzas, one with cheese and pineapple, one with buffalo chicken, and Derek realizes when it gets there that they didn’t get one with pork on it, even though he knows pepperoni is Dex’s favorite. It makes him smile, but not as much as Dex taking a piece of the pineapple one and grudgingly admitting it’s not the _worst_ thing he’s ever eaten. Chowder takes out his phone and makes him repeat it while he records it, and then sends the video to the SMH group chat. 

 

He shows it to them, and Derek’s surprised at what his own face looks like in the background--he’s laughing, and it doesn’t look fragile or faked. 

 

Less than a minute later, all of their phones buzz with an identical message from Bitty: **_frog bonding night! i’m so proud :D :D :D_**

 

Derek looks down at his phone, unable to keep himself from smiling.

 

“Hey,” Dex says, sitting down next to him while Chowder scrolls through the action comedies subgenre on Netflix. “You good?”

 

“I’m…” Derek puts his phone down, trying to figure out the best way to answer. He doesn’t know if he’s _good_ , but he’s...here. He’s safe. He’s eating, and the pizza tastes sweet and salty, not like dust. His skin feels warm where Dex’s hand is on his shoulder, over his shirt, a steady, soothing grip.

 

Chowder puts on _Ocean’s Eleven_ , and the three of them squish together on the bed, C and Dex bracketing him on both sides. As the opening credits run, he realizes that they’re still looking for him, waiting for an answer. He takes a second to inventory his emotions, and doesn’t find hopelessness, doesn’t feel anxiety itching under his skin, doesn’t feel the remnants of the craving to pour a bottle of pills down his throat. 

 

“I’m okay,” he decides. 

 

Dex studies his face. His eyes are curious, still concerned, but there’s a light fondness in them that Derek’s never really seen before. Or maybe he’s just never really looked for it. “Yeah? And okay is...okay?”

 

Derek nods. “Okay is good,” he says. 

 

“Okay.” Dex smiles. “Good.”

 

“Really good,” Chowder agrees. 

 

And it is. Derek tilts his head, cautiously, onto Dex’s shoulder. He feels Dex take in a small, sharp breath, but then he shifts, moving his arm so that Derek’s neck isn’t at such a weird angle. On his other side, Chowder makes a happy sound, and a moment later, Derek hears the click of his phone camera.

 

“ _Chowder_ ,” Dex says, exasperated but not annoyed. 

 

“You’re not yelling at each other,” Chowder says, gleeful. He puts his phone down, though, and loops his arm comfortably through Derek’s. “It’s nice.”

 

It _is_ nice, Derek thinks. 

 

He smiles, soft and slow, and it doesn’t hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of mental health feelings, y'all. 
> 
> This fic is planned to be the first in a series. More cuddles to come (and also kissing of the Nursey/Dex variety, but this one was more of a pre-relationship gig).
> 
> Also: Talking to a friend is a great thing, but if you are seriously dealing with suicidal ideation, please reach out to a professional. [Here is a list of phone hotlines (US-based)](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com/post/24784688810/dont-ever-hesitate-reblog-this-tumblr-rule), and [here is an international list](http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html). For a text-based hotline, [click here](http://www.crisischat.org/). Stay safe, babes. <3
> 
> If you want to flail with me about fandom, puppies, politics, and a bunch of other random stuff, I'm on tumblr: @geniusorinsanity.


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